The Adventure of the Lover's Jewelbox
by The Blackjack
Summary: Sherlock Holmes receives an apparently simple request to retrieve a stolen jewelbox, or so Watson believes. But the master detective knows that cases that seem so simple often are the most difficult of all.
1. I

As I compile more and more notes on Sherlock Holmes, I realize that many of the odder adventures are still unrecorded. That is fully unsurprising, as to work with him is to invite the strange and foreign, and I have perhaps been privy to more queer happenings in a single adventure with the man than several other men will ever see in their entire lives. Consequently, I have decided to sketch out one of his lesser-known accomplishments; the details of which are sure to surprise even the most jaded of readers. An example of one of these bizarre happenings is demonstrated with the little problem of Mr. Bradstreet and his most curious affaire, which led to a complex web that I could never have predicted. In fact, no one could have predicted it—save Sherlock Holmes.

It was a brisk autumn day as I was passing by Baker-street by chance, returning home from one of my professional visits. As dinner time was still hours away, I decided to visit my old friend, with whom I hadn't spoken to in several weeks. I found him in his lodgings spread out in a chair, his pipe in his mouth and an atlas in his hands. I thought at first to leave him to his studies, but he discovered me before I could act. "Ah, Watson," said he, "come, sit down. Your company comes at an opportune time."

I walked to my companion and sat. He closed his book and glanced at the door. "A client had contacted me stating that he was to stop by with a most peculiar problem, but he is very much late- Ah, speak of the devil."

The door which I had just entered opened, and a large man entered the sitting chambers of my good friend. He looked like a well-to-do businessman, with a large face with finely trimmed whiskers running down both sides of his head. His face had a reddish composure, and plump from a life of privilege. The one flaw of his face was a large, circular scar on his cheek, and my military years helped me to identify is as a wound from a bullet. He wore a shining new tophat, a thick, expensive, brown cloak, and a pair of boots much older than the rest of his dapper clothing. "Greetings, Mr. Bradstreet," Holmes said in his own genial way, "please, have a seat near the fire. It is a windy evening, and I am sure you are cold from your voyage."

The new gentleman shot a glance from the corner of his eye to myself, and I noticed a slight tremble of his lip. "Who is this man?" he asked, his voice an octave higher than one would expect in such a large fellow.

"This is my dear friend Dr. Watson who is kind enough to occasionally chronicle a few of my cases. Be assured that anything you can say before me you can say before him."

Mr. Bradstreet ran his hand across his cheek, stopping his hand when it was over the old wound. He thought for a moment, and I was under the impression that he was about to walk back out the door, yet my suspicions went unfulfilled as he took up Holmes' offer and seated himself beside the fire. "My thanks, Mr. Holmes," he said, rubbing his hands near the flame, "I must admit I'm not accustomed to the cold climate here in London."

Holmes sat back in his chair. "Indeed?"

"Yes. I've spent quite a bit of time in the colonies. The weather of Africa is far better for a man of my build than that of England. I actually served as an officer in the British army in the south of Africa. In fact, I got this scar on my cheek from a skirmish with the native Zulu," he said, his chest puffing out slightly in pride.

"Perhaps," said Sherlock Holmes, touching his fingertips together, "Or perhaps you received that scar in a hunting accident in the English countryside."

Mr. Bradstreet gave a visible spasm and looked up at Holmes. "Why, by George, I did, but how could you know?"

"I observed, my good sir," said Holmes, "I knew that you couldn't possibly be an officer, as I can observe you've buttoned the lower button of your greatcloak to the higher reciprocal, and no one officer would be caught with such a sloppy odium. Furthermore, the wound in your cheek has healed most admirably, and I can only deduct that if you indeed had it inflicted in Africa there would be some putrefaction of the wound and a much more ugly scar. Is that not so, my good doctor?"

"Why," I said, "I would say so. My work in Afghanistan showed that even small bullet wounds tend to invite more disease than similar injuries in the town."

"Exactly. And after ruling out your story, I merely needed to discover the true source of your wound. I thought of the common place one could get a gunshot to the cheek, and determined hunting would be a very plausible source, and your boots lend credit to my hypothesis. I can see that they are often covered by a coat of mud and grass and had only recently attempted to be scraped off. Regardless, the boots are still stained by the mud and grass, showing that you were indeed in an outdoor environment. Simple deduction carried me from there."

Rather than being embarrassed at the uncovering of his life, Mr. Bradstreet gave a hearty laugh. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, you are as great as they say. That little story was merely a test, to see if you could really aid me in my little problem."

"I do believe I am quite qualified for whatever situation you could propose. Please state the problem, but with the truth this time."

Mr. Bradstreet chuckled once more. "Of course. Well, Mr. Holmes, I am Joseph Bradstreet, as you know, and I myself run a rather successful small printing venture. Business has been good to me, allowing me more luxuries than I have normally been allowed to enjoy."

Holmes' eyes rolled to the tophat that was still perched on his client's head, "Yes, I can tell that you've only recently came into the possession of your fortunes."

"Mr. Holmes," Bradsteet said, "can I trust that you will be entirely confidential in the details I disclose?"

"Of course."

"Well, my poor wife, who had been married to me for seven-and-twenty years had always been burdened by the mundaneness of housework. So on our anniversary I presented as a gift to her a young maid to help her with the housework. She is a young girl, of only seventeen years, who had recently made her way to England from France. The poor girl had been down on her luck and said she were to consider begging and other less than honorable actions to help pay for the necessities of life. Rather than let such a young, inexperienced girl out in the world, I chose instead to let her into my house. Yet she only helped my wife with the most basic of tasks, as Mrs. Bradstreet tends to be very forceful in her habits and claimed she thought the girl would be only trouble. Regardless, the maid helped to clean dishes and clothes, as well as a little cooking and cleaning. Although she didn't work as hard or as long as most women in her profession, I paid her most generously, as I couldn't bring myself to put more hardship on such an unfortunate young lady."

"Could you state the name of this young lady?"

"Jeanne Dinard."

"Thank you. Please continue."

"Well then, Mr. Holmes, came the most disgraceful action of my entire life. While my wife was out visiting her aunt, I was left alone with the young maid. It was a very cold night, and I was so very lonely… The maid had often eyed me, I will admit, but I never assumed she could ever be so… Open in her advances. But an illness had weakened my moral fibre, and… I will admit that I was guilty of forsaking my wedding vows and acting dishonorably against my wife. I shall spare you the details, but I would beg that you never reveal this fact to my wife. Her poor constitution couldn't take that sort of shock, and I honestly regret the disgusting action every waking moment."

"That is your sin, Mr. Bradstreet," said Sherlock Holmes, "But rest assured that I shall keep it quiet. When did this act take place?"

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. As for the time, it was only last Thursday. Now, I couldn't take the guilt of what I had done. And to make matters worse, the maid continued to warm to me, up to the point where she would often tell me when we were alone and if I desired her…! No, I couldn't stand it! I sacked the girl, and told her I could not bear her presence another day. I was so eager to get the whole affaire behind me; I didn't notice her own feelings. Apparently, she harbored some young, foolish feelings of love towards me, but that didn't sway my judgement. However, being a spiteful scorned young woman, she decided to inflict a wound onto me that would equal the wound I inflicted on her tender heart. She stole from my wife her precious jewelbox, and ran off into the night with it. And here's the rub, Mr. Holmes—I can not prove it. By thunder, I know that the girl stole it, but I have no proof. When I asked the police for assistance they looked into her lodgings but could find no trace of the box, and my complaints went unanswered and the crime committed on me unpunished. I want you to somehow help me retrieve this jewelbox before my wife arrives back from the aunt's house, as this jewelbox is her family's sole heirloom."

"Is it possible she merely sold the jewelbox?"

"No. She is of a romantic and passionate disposition, and to her the jewelbox must be a prize of priceless value. Regardless, she also hasn't the key to the box, so she would need to bash the lock to gain access to the gems."

"And you are absolutely sure of this fact?"

"I would wager my life upon it."

"She has new lodgings, does she not?"

"She stays at a boarding house in Lower Swandom-lane."

"I am familiar with that particular establishment. You are sure that she went there immediately after you had her sacked?"

"Yes."

"I understand. Very well, Mr. Bradstreet, I shall start my efforts to recover your wife's jewelbox immediately. I shall send word when I make progress in the case."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes! I shall await your response, then."

Mr. Bradstreet stood, gave a little bow, and left our chambers in a bit of a hurry. Sherlock Holmes stood up and picked his felt hat from a nearby table. "Well, Watson, fancy a small trip east?"

"Of course," I told my friend, "But I haven't had any supper."

"Ah, well, I'm afraid tonight you might just have to go wanting. This little affaire has more to it than first meets the eye, and I'm afraid we're going to have to act quickly if we're to discover the truth of this matter. I do hope that you'll excuse the lack of hospitality."

"Not at all," I said, grabbing my cloak, "I wasn't particularity hungry tonight anyway."


	2. II

Within the hour Holmes and I were in a cab, heading through eastern London. My companion's finger was bobbing through the air to a tune that he must have heard some nights earlier, and his eyes were closed. "Tell me," I asked him, "What are your theories on how to recover the box? Are we going to have a repeat of the Irene Adler method?"

"No," said Holmes, "I highly doubt that she keeps the box in her possession. She must have assumed that Mr. Bradstreet would inform the police, and that her house would be searched."

"So we're merely to question her for now?"

"Maybe," said he, "but I believe that I have an inkling to where our little treasure might be located. But it's purely theoretical, and I would be loath to act without any scrap of solid fact."

The street was in a very disreputable district. The alleys were lined with penny shops and opium dens, and yet my mind was still more drawn to the peculiarities of this case rather than the squalid surroundings. Sherlock Holmes, however, gave no heed to gloom about us and walked directly to Miss Dinard's lodgings. Five minutes later we were in front of her door. "Now, Watson, pay very close attention. This case could very well be solved after this single talk." He then rapped the door with his knuckles, and awaited his answer.

Just moments later, the door swung open to reveal Miss Dinard. I will admit that I was most surprised. She was not at all pretty, possessing thick black eyebrows, a misshapen nose, and a face that seemed to be at it's most natural in the midst of a frown. Her clothing was cheap, old, and dirty, all save a pair of new, glossy gloves that were strikingly out of place with the rest of her outfit. "Can I help you?" she said, her French accent very apparent.

My friend unexpectantly took a step foreword and grabbed the young lady's hand, who's dark face contorted. She jerked her hand from Holmes's, "You presume much, sir."

"_Pardonnez-vous_, _Mademoiselle_" said Holmes; "I was captivated by your beauty. My associate and I have some business that we would have you hear. May we step into your chambers?"

Her black eyes darted between the two of us and she thought the proposition over. "… Very well. But I must warn you, Mr…"

"Sherlock Holmes. And this is my old companion, John Watson."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I must warn you that if you try anything rash, I will call an alarm."

"Please, do not be under the wrong impression" said he, "I merely wish to ask you a few questions."

She eyed Holmes for another moment before allowing him in. Her chambers suited her clothing. The room was a mess, covered in filth, and I almost gagged from the foul airs. Holmes, however, looked about with great interest, especially to a large window at the far end of the room. "I came, miss, to ask about your employment with a Mr. Bradstreet."

"What?" she said, almost sounding as if she were afraid, "why would you want to know that?"  
"I have been hired by his wife," said Sherlock Holmes, "who believed that you and he had a disreputable _liaison."_

With that, Miss Dinard almost laughed. "Well, she would have good reason to suspect so. I was the target of his lugubrious advances from the very day I made the stupid decision to take his employ."

"Oh?" said Holmes, "please elaborate."

"Very well. To tell you the truth, sir, I speak of this because his wife was of an agreeable disposition, and I enjoyed her presence. How such a good woman could be married to that beast of a man, I shall never know. When I first came to England, I had nearly nothing to my name. My parents both contracted cholera the first month we arrived and succumbed to the illness. I was left with only a few pounds, and needed to find work immediately. I soon met Mr. Bradstreet, who took me on as a maid. The conditions were less than ideal. I was given more work than most women of my station, and for pay which simply wasn't acceptable. However, I continued to do such labor, as my need for the money was great. You know how a woman in my position would need the funds."

"Of course. But as to why he fired you?"

"Fired me? Is that what he said? On the contrary, I personally left the household in disgust. Every day I worked the man would gaze at me hungrily, in the most disgusting fashion you could possibly fathom. I was uncomfortable, but I assumed he had the modicum of dignity to keep his passions within him. I was a fool to think so. Just last Tuesday, Mrs. Bradstreet had left the home for one week as to visit her aunt. Now, I was worried even before she had left, as Mr. Bradstreet is prone to enter terrible fits of rage when he drinks, yet I never once assumed that he would act the way he ultimately would. One evening, while I was cleaning the cutlery, Mr. Bradstreet walked from behind me and… Well, suffice to say he used his hands in a most inappropriate manner.

"'Mr. Bradstreet!" says I, 'what do you think you are doing?'

"But he was overcome in a drunken lust, and would not say a word. I managed to overcome his strength and run upstairs, where he would not follow me. I've not the foggiest idea why—I can only assume that the Lord was watching over me. I gathered my belongings and left the house that very night, vowing to myself that I would never return."

"I see. You say that you were on good terms with Mrs. Bradstreet?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. I could do nothing to hurt the woman."

"When you left the home, you only took your possessions? Nothing more?"

"Of course not. I would never steal from a man, even from _him_. Despite my surroundings, I do have my dignity."

"So you didn't, by any chance, steal a box?"

"No," she said, her voice gaining in suspicion.

"I would have it that you wouldn't lie to me, Miss Dinard. For honestly, I already know where the box is."

Miss Dinard gave a little gasp and a hop. She shook her head furiously, pointing an accusatory finger at Sherlock Holmes. "How dare you accuse me of such an act! You should be ashamed of yourself! Leave my home at once!"

Knowing that an enraged woman can be one of the most vicious beasts of all, my companion and I quickly made our leave of the house. When we were out on the streets, I turned to my friend with some astonishment on my face. "Holmes, I have often not deducted or observed at your capacity, but how is it possible that you were able to solve the location of the jewelbox in so little time?"

"A keen eye for details," Sherlock replied, "but we mustn't trouble ourselves with such a trifle like a jewelbox anymore. There is much more at stake here. My good Watson, what time is it?"

"Why, it's almost seven thirty."

"Very good. Now, Watson, here is what I want you to do. Go home and enjoy the rest of your evening with your family. When the clock strikes ten, I want you to leave your lodgings and come to Pall Mall to meet me there. Bring your revolver. I have a feeling that you might need it." He nodded to me, and then walked off, in no direction to the cab, assumedly to continue his search.


	3. III

I met Sherlock Holmes at the designated time to find him conversing with two other men. "Watson has arrived," he said, checking a timepiece, "and not a moment too soon. Now, I trust you remember Mr. Jones, of Scotland-yard? And of course Mr. Merryweather, who was so kind to help us detain Mr. John Clay?"

"This is very familiar," said Mr. Merryweather, who still retained his gloominess, "not only the four of us, but the fact that I'm missing my rubber. This doesn't even seem to have anything to do with my bank."

"Don't worry, Mr. Merryweather," said Holmes knowingly, "I've a feeling that your bank will be very interested in the implications of this little case. Now, Mr. Jones, you were able to reserve the necessary men that I requested, I take it?"

"Of course, Holmes. They're over in that alley right now, but I can call them out whenever you need me to."

"Excellent. Now, gentlemen, if you would follow me…"

We followed Holmes from Pall Mall until we arrived at Jermyn Street. He pointed to a small coffee shop with his cane. "Now, my good sirs, we wait there."

The four of us waited in this small shop for the better portion of an hour. I found myself immersed in a discussion from a table behind us of two foreign gentlemen comparing the merits of Goethe. Holmes, however, kept his gaze out the windows, watching the passers by. At first, I thought him merely honing his fine skills of observation, but every time I attempted to speak to him, my old friend would decline my conversation. His eyes were fixed on a small printing shop, which had an eviction notice posted on the door. After an hour, when Mr. Merryweather was starting to become anxious, Holmes stood in an eager glee. I quickly laid my gaze across the road just in time to see a shalled woman slip through the door of the printshop. "Ha!" said Holmes, "I was right. Now come, we haven't a moment to spare."

I looked out the window to see the sight that so animated Holmes. He hopped from his chair like an excited predator and set out onto the streets. The three of us followed him, but so confident his stride that we needed to jog just to keep up with him. "I say, Mr. Holmes!" cried Jones, "where are we going?"

"To listen in on a conversation. This shouldn't take more than a moment to get all the facts we need."

The four of us went to an uncared for window of the printshop and listened through the thin glass. We could hear two muffled voices, yet they were still distinct enough to make out the words. The first voice was that of a man. "Now, Jeanne, it's time for you to return the box. You're a clever girl, and a good partner, so I'll give you this one chance to keep things bloodless."

"The devil take you, Bradstreet. You have no intention of letting me live. You didn't even have one from the start."

"You are indeed clever. A pity that we couldn't have worked together. The two of us could have accomplished great things. Now, tell me where the box is and I'll make this as painless as possible."

Sherlock left the window and headed to the door, Jones close behind him. We entered the building to find it much more used on the insides than outside would have suggested. In the room we were currently in stood two persons, Mr. Bradstreet and Miss Dinard. Mr Bradstreet was pointing a pistol at the young woman, and I heard the distinctive click of a gun's lock. Miss Dinard looked terrified and was up against the wall. "I am glad you have arrived, Mr. Holmes," said Bradstreet, "I've confronted the girl who threatened to pull a dagger on me if I hadn't eloped with her. It's hard to believe that she would…"

Before he could finish, Sherlock interrupted him, disgust etched upon his features. "Have you no shame, sir?" he asked, "have you not the basest shred of human dignity? Not only would you murder a young girl, but also you would lie to the authorities of justice to aid you? How dare you disgrace the British people like this."

"I have no idea what you speak of, Mr. Holmes," said he, "I told you what this girl has done against me."

"You have told me nothing but lies, Mr. Bradstreet," said Holmes, drawing his own pistol, "and I have of course seen through them. It is useless to even point the gun at her, as I've already found your precious box."

Both the man and woman said, "What?"

"It was of no difficulty to find. Elementary, actually. But I shan't return it. I doubt you'll even be able to use its contents anymore. With me are Mr. Jones, of Scotland-yard, and several men wait outside if you decide to flee. Mr. Merrywether is also present, whose pardon you must beg, as you've committed a crime against him as well."

"Why," said Mr. Merrywether, "no crime has been committed against me!"  
"Yes, indeed there has been. The man before you is Mr. Joseph Bradstreet, who is a counterfeiter of some renown. You would probably know him better as Ezekiel Windermere."

"Windermere?" asked Jones, "this is really the Windermere, the man who created over fifty thousand in forged pound notes?"

"Indeed," said Holmes, "and his pride has been the end of him. Mr. Bradstreet, I make you an offer. You can set down your pistol and come with Mr. Jones here peacefully, or you can try to resist arrest. If you chose the latter, I will put a bullet through your skull."

Bradstreet looked furious for a moment, but then laughed as he did when we first met him. "Once again, Holmes, you see through my ruse. Masterfully played," he said, setting his pistol on the ground, "might I inquire as to how you were able to discover me, and so quickly?"

"No," said Holmes, "filth like you don't deserve such privileges. Mr. Jones, if you'd please…"

Jones, bewildered by this odd turn of events, walked over to Bradstreet with cuffs in hand. It seemed as though Bradstreet had accepted his failure, and was going to surrender to the law quietly. Honestly, neither Jones or I knew for exactly what reason, but so zealous and sure were Sherlock Holmes' words that we had no doubt of the man's guilt. When Jones was merely a pace away from the culpable man, Bradstreet's mood changed, switching from defeated to defiant in less than a second. I saw a derringer slip from his sleeve into his hand, and Bradstreet pointed the gun directly at Holmes. Before I could give a cry he shot the pistol, a final, cruel look of victory perched upon his face.

My gaze turned directly to Holmes, and I could feel the color sliding from my face. Yet he hardly flinched. From his shoulder, his picked at his shirt until he retrieved a small lead ball. "The problem with those small pistols that the Americans are so fond of, Mr. Bradstreet," said he, "is that they lose all their effectiveness at range. You've managed to accomplish nothing, other than solidify my disgust."

Jones apprehend the man, and dragged him from the room back out into the street. Any shred of civilization or upbringing had left the counterfeiter, who began shouting a long string of unprintable curses. Holmes turned his attention not to the criminal, but to Miss Dinard, who still was very shaken. "Ah, Miss Dinard, I'm afraid we'll also have to arrest you. While you might not be as terrible of a person as Bradstreet, you've still aided him in a crime. But before you go, would you be kind enough to answer a few questions? It would be of great value to me."

The young lady hung her head in shame. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. There is no point in still fighting the inevitable."

Holmes turned to me, "Well, Watson, that wasn't exactly how I planned this interaction, but everything has turned out for the best. Please, return to Baker-street. I will be there shortly, after speaking with this young lady."


	4. IV

"But how did you deduct the whole affair in such little time?" I asked Holmes when he had at last returned from questioning Miss Dinard.

"It was actually quite simple. I knew from the start of this case that Bradstreet was a liar, and a proud one at that. Any man who takes a hunting accident and turns it into an undeserved badge of courage is one who thinks highly of himself, and that pride was also evident in how he refused to remove his tophat, purely so that we could see his wealth. Of course, his means were also very suspicious, as a small printer should never be able to afford the lifestyle he would lead us to believe that he had. However, I knew that his career was in printing from the letter he had sent me, and I could only assume that he had an alternate source of income. I assumed at first it was merely inheritance, as we should never assume a crime without proper evidence, but as the details continued to reveal themselves I found that it was not the case. Meeting Miss Dinard further cast doubt on his story, as a man like himself, with his great pride, would never take on such an ugly girl as a lover. Needless to say, I hardly gave any faith or credit to Bradstreet that wasn't absolutely necessary.

"Even before we talked to Miss Dinard, I questioned the cornerstone of this entire case—was it truly a jewelbox that had been stolen? But as I told you in the cab, I wouldn't act on a mere feeling; I needed fact. And speaking with the woman made two things clear. First, she wasn't merely a servant girl. Her English was extraordinary; spoken like a true native. She could've made triple a servant's girl income as a private French tutor, and she knew it. And she was also sharp and clever, not the kind of traits found in servants. With that in mind, I knew she still must've been involved with Bradstreet, but the question was how. Her visage ruled out a vulgar relationship. Furthermore, my interest was piqued when I saw she was wearing gloves, for they had to be hiding something. By grasping her hand I felt her fingers, and discovered what I had expected to find. They were covered in thick calluses, thicker than my own. But what would have a lady such as herself grow such thick calluses?

"Then it all came to me. Counterfeiting. Bradstreet had all the materials needed to forge notes, and it would explain why he had so much extra money. And then the woman made sense, as she would be provide the technical work that Bradstreet might not have knowledge of. The calluses would be natural for a woman who was often working with the metal blocks necessary to forge such perfect notes. And then the contents of the jewelbox became clear—they were not jewels, but the missing blocks needed to create a fake pound note."

"Once again, Holmes, you have deducted everything before I could even gain a wisp of understanding the true gravity of this case. But how did you determine the location of the box?"

"To be honest, Watson, when I told her that I knew of it's location, I actually had no idea. I knew that it couldn't be in her chambers, as they would be searched, but had to be nearby, in case she were to have to suddenly leave. When I told her of the location, she instinctively glanced outside the window onto the grounds outside in an unused lot. A cursory check of the grounds proved that it was under a small bush."

"And what did you ask Miss Dinard just now?"

"Just the minor details, Watson. I needed to know her motive, and it was just as I had assumed. Miss Dinard had come from France with her father, who was a notorious criminal. Mr. Bradstreet, down on his luck, entered into a partnership with her father, but the man did indeed die of cholera. Miss Dinard, however, knew the techniques necessary to work the machines, and decided to continue to work with Bradstreet. But Bradstreet was proud, and refused to split their ill-gotten money as they had previously agreed. In retaliation, Miss Dinard stole the blocks needed for the counterfeiting press, and then Mr. Bradstreet came to us."

I looked at my friend in astonishment. "My word, you had totally deduced the entire case before I could even begin to do so myself. You never cease to amaze me."

"I daresay I will someday," said he, picking up his violin, "for after all, you can stay enthralled by my power of deduction for only so long. As Emerson said, every hero becomes a bore at last. Now hand me my bow, and we'll allow ourselves an hour of music before you return to your family."


End file.
